


I don't want to break these chains

by tolkienhorror



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Acid, Addiction, Anal Probing, Anal Sex, Angband, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Torture, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Body Modification, Broken Bones, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dildos, Elemental Magic, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eye Trauma, First Age, Healers, Healing, Horror, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lava - Freeform, Loyalty, M/M, Medical Procedures, Medical Torture, Medical Trauma, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Organ Removal, Permanent Injury, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Serious Injuries, Sort Of, Sort-of, Surgery, Suspension, Thangorodrim, Torture, Trauma, angbang, damn it's satisfying hurting sauron, non fluffy angbang, sauron gets to hang around, sauron is not having a good time, test of loyalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:55:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26482264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tolkienhorror/pseuds/tolkienhorror
Summary: After Maitimo has been freed from his captivity, Mairon has to answer to his Lord for his failure. Melkor is not happy.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 8
Kudos: 48





	I don't want to break these chains

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the great beta work! You know who you are.

Mairon is not exactly sure for how long he's been hanging off that damn mountain.

He has a _vague_ idea, sure; because Melkor is nothing if not predictable.

When Mairon has begged his Lord for a chance to atone for his failure regarding that damn Noldorin Lord that has escaped their grasp, it became clear pretty quickly that his Lord wouldn't be satisfied until he's put Mairon through every single detail of torture that he himself or Mairon had once broken their favorite toy with. Before Melkor's frustration about this crucial loss hasn't been satisfied by enough pain and humiliation inflicted on his once-favorite lieutenant, Mairon shouldn't dare getting any hopes up about being pardoned. About being reinstituted.

So he endures.

All things considered, it could have been a lot worse.

Indeed, in those last few months, one single, unkind thought has been pretty consistent, while he's bled, vomited, writhed, screamed and cried for his Master … Nelyafinwë, King of the lower race, is _pathetic_.

Mairon is ready to admit that it comes in handy, being able to heal his own body with millennia of practice in song and surgery, within a minimum of time. Still, there was really nothing in all these weeks of torment, rape and hunger that would have brought him even close to reconsider if all of this is actually worth it. Nothing that would have even come close to breaking him like his cute little pet's bones and stare and voice so easily had.

If Melkor thinks this is a way to get rid of him, he knows Mairon less then thought. Such ridiculous blasphemy would hurt much more than any scar that this once fair form has earned, than even a hint of regret about probably having to give said form up sooner or later. More than the hassle of finding a new fitting appearance to serve his Master with. By now, sadly, even Mairon's reconstruction is reaching its limits.

But he's a maia; he's always endured. He'll find a new shape to please both his Master and him, in that order. It's no big deal.

None of this is.

None of this can truly get to him, safe for his own weakness. And this is the only fear haunting him in lonely nights, ever since his Lord has sung a thick shackle through his left wrist – Melkor likes Mairon to remember that he's nothing but a lesser, less entertaining mirror of the prisoner they've lost – and left him to starve, to hurt and to slowly decay on the top of his home.

Mairon is not afraid that he'll be forgotten here – if Melkor wanted him dead, he would be. If Melkor wanted him gone, he'd have sent him away.

Truth is … And this is something that Mairon knows but that he really needs to learn to keep to himself.

In fact, most of the especially unbearable torment that Mairon has gone through in the last months, like his own wolves feasting on his organs and the acid inserted in his digestive system by every orifice available, which has been making every intake of nutrition, no matter how small, a whole universe of pain since then … All of that he mostly has to thank his big mouth for.

He shouldn't have taunted his Master. Shouldn't have told him that Melkor can't simply do _without_ him, no matter how true it is.

Because Melkor is _weak_. The body that his Master is trapped in is his own very weakness. Melkor can't physically go without satisfying the needs and desires that his body eventually always suffers from, including the maddening urge for pleasure that most beings are being controlled by all their lives. And there is no one among that pitiful group of maiar leftovers that Melkor keeps around, and certainly none of the freakish, lowlife creatures he breeds himself, that can take everything Melkor considers pleasure.

There's only one who can still muster up the skill to repair himself at the end of the day, and the will to still beg for it all over next time.

Melkor _needs_ Mairon.

They both know that, and while throwing it in his Master's face was admittedly not one of Mairon's brighter moments ... It has been worth it.

His Lord might have wondered if he'd managed to break his sanity for good when he's thrown Mairon off that cliff, the chain protruding from his wrist in his hand, and Mairon had had nothing but hysterical laughter to spare for him

He's still been laughing when he broke his bones and his face on the sharp-edged rock and his shoulder popped from its socket and he's been convinced for a moment that his whole arm would come off, until he finally came to a halt …

But Mairon has never been clearer in his head. He's laughed because in that moment, when his Lord exposed him to his last, longest, most challenging punishment, he knew he was _right_.

Triumph is a very powerful motivator, as is spite. It helps, never letting that one, most scariest feeling of all even touch the thick walls of protection around the filthy pool that was once Mairon's soul. The beast called _doubt_.

There's no need to doubt his aims or his purpose. No need to doubt his decisions. When Mairon is not being busy, mending the last of his shattered bones with another, continuously weakening song, or with summoning enough moisture from the air to catch on his split and spike-studded tongue, to keep him going another day … Then he sometimes likes to wave these short moments of doubt good-bye.

Melkor will take him back because he needs him, has always needed him. It is as simple as that.

Mairon will soon be back to doing what he's being best at, in the first row of the only legitimate and worthy reign that this shithole of a world deserves. As long as his Master doesn't seriously start to consider getting rid of him, there's no reason to consider a better place to go.

There's never _been_ a better place for Mairon anyway.

Yet recently, Mairon finds himself increasingly wondering how much time has passed, and he's not sure, why. He's lost count a little since spending the first few days on this damn rock, mostly in a pain delirium and with weakly hummed notes on his lips when he's been awake enough to, to keep the inner bleedings from half a dozen ruptured organs from killing him.

He _shouldn't_ be getting impatient. After all, time has no meaning for immortal beings. Even if he's surpassed the span of these months by now that he's left his favorite pet out here, before forgetting to check on the wretched creature for a few days too long which might just have been the biggest mistake of his life … It's not up to him to decide how long the punishment for that mistake will last.

He just needs to go back to meditating, while shutting out the pain throbbing in every cell, pushing it to the backmost corner of his mind. Dreaming about the day when none of this will matter, when all of this world will bow to his Master's will …

But at some point, even in his foggy head, his instincts take over, and his instincts usually serve him well. So he forces himself to tear his thoughts from his daze and consciously focus on his surroundings and that broken shell of a form, for the first time in … days? Weeks?

Too long, apparently. It takes a while before he can really make something out in the ever-lasting darkness, with only one remaining eye (the other has served as dinner for a crow months ago, when he was too far gone to wake up in time). Something is very wrong about the sight of his shattered shoulder. The color of the exposed skin has changed from grey to black, that's what's wrong. It's rotting, his shoulder is rotting all the way down to his neck and arm.

So that's where the growing fever is coming from. In a few days tops, he won't only be too dizzy to remember the simplest song of healing. If he's unlucky enough, his body will tear itself away from that useless shoulder before and be shattered to pieces on the valley below.

Sure, Mairon could just manipulate his prison or switch his body with an entirely new, healthy one … If he wanted to, he could be out of here in seconds. But that's against the rule. Except for the most necessary songs to keep him from demise, all that makes his situation better is subject to Melkor's will.

So Mairon has to reach out in his mind, much as he hates it.

_Have you called to beg for your release from my service?_

His Master sounds exceptionally amused and Mairon can't help but wonder if he's watching him or if he really cares as little as he says. He's not sure which option is less disturbing.

_Never._

_Then don't bother me with your whining._

_I cannot. Even bodies like ours have limits. As_ you _should know best._

A hateful, uncontrolled screech in his head leaves Mairon almost deaf from the inside and makes his eyes and nose and ears bleed.

Mairon smiles through the blood he tastes. It's rare that he gets to land a punch but he cherishes every broken cell when he manages to.

_What is that your feeble powers are too incompetent to deal with?_

Still grinning, this time through the growing pain, Mairon looks up once more.

_Oh, I see. My little weakling needs a chair, does he? A chair you shall have, slave._

Mairon is not exactly sure what he's expected but definitely not what he's getting.

Rock is coming to life around his midsection. It crumbles and cracks. Then it starts to liquefy.

The growing heat melts of the last of his clothing that has not lost gotten to weather yet, and then it melts his skin and Mairon screams, screams with more volume than knew he still _had_. Then he retches because his body is too weak to come up with protective shields at this point, and he can smell himself cook.

Then the heat is _inside_ of him and he wonders if he's gone too far this time after all. If he's challenged his Master too much. There's limits to what even his own repair spells can do, and molten and charred flesh on the inside is nothing he can make good, not in the state that he's being in.

For a moment – for _one_ , the _only_ , maybe the last second in his doomed life –, Mairon feels a touch of fear, of being lost

_where will he go_

_there is no place for people like him to go_

_will they throw him in the void too_

_leave him forever where he's being cut off from any good_

_from any order he can bring to this world or the other_

_where he's forever barred from making a change_

But then his overloaded senses catch on and he realizes, the heat is only unpleasant and no longer destructive now. And it's _not_ lava, not really; it's driven, defying gravity, it's being moved and guided by powers that his own will never be a match for; filling every tortured crevice of his lower body, every inch of flesh still functional inside of him. Deep, deep, without breaking the last life-saving barrier of his fucked up intestinal walls.

Then the fluid hardens, and the heat is gone.

Mairon's body is no longer being supported by a useless, dead arm but by his own weight, impaled on cold, unforgiving rock, muscles clenching weakly in protest around the new cruel intrusion, legs uselessly kicking to find any kind of support, to try and free him from this new torturous modification of a long-lost body, even more painful and lifeless than being speared by his Master's too large, too thick cock.

By the time he gives in, panting and cursing and screaming his Master's name to the sky, the connection to Melkor in his head is lost once more.

And Mairon keeps on waiting.


End file.
